


Children of Gold

by ExcessSummer



Category: Dancing with the Stars (US) RPF, Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 05:29:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1767229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExcessSummer/pseuds/ExcessSummer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When chaos and darkness have ruled the land<br/>And the eyes of the heavens have turned their full dance<br/>From the lineage of kings four saviors shall come<br/>Standing bright and radiant as the rays of the sun:<br/>Then shall peace reign and prosperity unfold<br/>When the throne is held by the children of gold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My other story is stuck, and my brain keeps telling me I should get this out of my system. So here you go -- a combination of frustration, imagination, and too much sci-fi. Hope you enjoy it, even if it is really out there. :-)

**PROLOGUE**

 

The young woman ran through the forest, fear quickening her feet even while she was hampered by the bundle she held in her arms. Every so often she paused, looking behind her with wide eyes, listening; then, spurred on by some invisible knowledge she ran on, heedless of the branches and thorns that tore at her hair, at her clothes, protecting a large bundle with her body.

She ran swiftly and quietly, following a narrow game path lit by the moon, the silence broken only by her own harsh breathing. Suddenly, she came to an abrupt halt: a wide river blocked her path, the water roaring and frothing over large boulders. She looked right and left, indecisive.

At that moment an arrow came whistling through the trees, narrowly missing her left sleeve. Within seconds another volley came, but this time she was ready: awkwardly managing to clutch her oversized bundle tightly in her left arm, she raised her right, directing it at the incoming onslaught. As if met by some invisible shield, the arrows bounced, harmless, towards the ground.

Knowing she could not hold all the arrows at bay, she ran on, turning right and parallel to the river. Several men burst from the forest edge, running after her, some readying their bows to nock more arrows.

“Witch!” one of them shouted. “Witch!”

She paid them no heed, merely running faster than she thought she could ever run, seemingly deflecting more arrows through her sheer will. Putting her head down and hunkering towards the bundle she held so protectively, she finally reached the cover of the farther end of the forest, and she gratefully entered its protective embrace. Silence greeted her once again, and the sound of running feet and roaring water gradually faded into the distance.

Deeper into the forest she came to a small clearing where, off to one side, a large outcropping of rock formed a small cave. Looking around quickly, she made her decision: stooping to allow herself access into the cave, she put her burden down carefully. She rearranged the cloths slightly, then, stepping back and out, put out her hands. Slowly, the rocks shifted and moved, an inch at a time, until the cave entrance could no longer be easily seen; to the casual eye it would merely be perceived as a natural rock formation. She took another step back, then another, then another, and finally turned around, tears in her eyes, to run again.

The momentary distraction proved costly: out of nowhere, an arrow flew, straight and true, burying itself into her right shoulder. She reeled back, staggering in surprise, clutching the wounded arm; another arrow found its mark in her stomach, its momentum making her spin around. She fell onto her knees, gasping. Weakly she tried to deflect the arrows, but this time only two or three fell onto the ground, while two more managed to hit her on the back.

She had to support herself with her hands now, clutching the grass made slippery by her own blood. Desperately she looked at the men who were now coming at her, many of them leering, some of them looking afraid. They held their bows and arrows at the ready, but, like seasoned hunters, their hands were now easy, knowing that they had already caught their quarry.

She was going nowhere.

A man detached himself from the group. He looked down at her, his face unreadable as he drew his sword.

“Any last words, witch, before I cut off your head?”

She looked up at him and – to the great unease of the men gathered there – she seemed to smile slightly. “Yes,” she said, clearly, despite her obvious pain. “I do.”

Turning towards the rest, she spoke, her voice louder than one would have expected of a dying woman. It carried over the wind, settling into everyone’s hearts, burying themselves deep into everyone’s minds. It was a familiar rhyme – in truth, merely a snatch of a longer verse that everyone had known since they were old enough to talk – but for some reason more imbued by meaning than it ever had:

 

_“When chaos and darkness have ruled the land_

_And the eyes of the heavens have turned their full dance_

_From the lineage of kings four saviors shall come_

_Standing bright and radiant as the rays of the sun:_

_Then shall peace reign and prosperity unfold_

_When the throne is held by the children of gold._ ”

 

She gasped again, clutching her stomach, her lifeblood welling through her fingers. “Remember, my boys,” she managed to whisper, mostly to herself. Then she spoke again, stronger, to the listening crowd: “Remember, my children.”

As she spoke, several of the men stepped forward, their hands flexing unconsciously on their bows: a myriad of colors had begun to swirl around the figure on the ground. The colors spun, faster and faster, whipping pebbles and dirt around, making the men look at each other in alarm.

One of them, a bearded man whose arrow found its mark first, frowned at the one holding the sword. “What witchcraft is this, Antonio? I thought you said …” 

“It's nothing,” the bearded man called Antonio said dismissively. “Nothing but the last display of a dying charlatan.”

In a sudden show of courage, Antonio stepped forward, swinging his sword high. Many years later, a number of the men present then could still remember the expression on the woman’s face right before Antonio brought the weapon crashing down: a strange mix of exultation, anger, and pity. Then she closed her eyes, took one last breath, and the colors flared, brighter than day, making Antonio stagger backward, blinded.

When the men could finally see, the wounded woman was nowhere to be found, save for a pool of blood on the grassy ground, made black by the red moon.

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 1.**

 

_Charlie – get out of there. Now._

Charlie heard his brother’s voice clearly in his head, breaking his concentration, and the small loaf of bread that had previously been making its slow, agonizing way to his hand fell, far back into the heap that contained others of its kind. _Derek,_ Charlie hissed, _you made me lose focus. I nearly had it –_

_Shopkeeper’s coming, fool! Get out!_

He blinked as his brother sent him the mental image of the baker hurrying down the narrow, dusty alleyway that led to his shop, his robes swishing around him.

_Uh-oh._

Quickly he drew his hood over his head, easing himself out of the window that he had managed to open earlier, then jumping off the ledge with practiced ease. He landed onto the nearest roof, thankful that his feet made hardly any clatter as he did so, and even more thankful that the roofs in their city sloped down towards the ground. It made his way down that much easier, although what it didn't provide, unfortunately, was – 

“Thief! Help! Help!”

The cries of the baker rang throughout the night, shattering the silence, and Charlie noted how quickly several windows opened in response, their occupants looking around in varying degrees of bewilderment and anger. He couldn’t simply slide down to the ground, now, with the eyes of so many – he’d never manage to turn them all, not in time. 

Seeing no other recourse, Charlie scrambled back up towards the ledge, his feet slipping now. It was so much harder to control what he stepped on when he was afraid, like this, his mind preoccupied only by the thought of escape; he knew it would only be a matter of seconds before they spotted his silhouette, outlined even darker against the dark sky. True enough, he had barely made it to the top of the roof when he heard another cry ring out.

“There! On the roof!”

Charlie ducked in time to avoid the arrow that sang through the wind, hearing its _snick_ above his hood. He clutched his cloak to himself fearfully, even more afraid of it falling backward than his being pierced by a shaft – because he could deal with _arrows_ , for goodness’ sake, but for his hair to be seen – Nana would be _so_ furious –

_What are you trying to do, then, paint them a picture? Get_ down _!_

Relief washed over him as he realized that Derek was somewhere near. Wildly he looked over the overlapping rooftops, ignoring the increasingly louder shouts and the unmistakable twangs of more arrows being shot (and missing), searching left, then right, until he saw, two streets down, a hand waving wildly.

Charlie swerved to the left to avoid two arrows that passed so near that, had he his full wits about him, he would have touched experimentally with his mind to see where it would go, but right now that selfsame mind was simply telling him to _go, go, go_ , his brother’s voice and his own seemingly melding in their panic.

He scrambled over the next roof, landing on the lower edge, his hands already shooting out to catch the ledge without thinking. He began to rock, gathering momentum to swing his body up and over, away from plain view, studiously keeping himself from looking back at his pursuers, focused only on getting to Derek. He tensed, readying himself, when an arrow whistled near his arm, burying itself onto the ledge.

Startled, Charlie’s hold on the ledge slipped, and he fell, hard, onto his back and in the dark alley below.

 

***************

 

Derek saw Charlie fall.

Instinctively, he raised his hands up to the sky. Immediately a crack of lightning streaked down to strike several trees, splitting them in half and sending them crashing down onto the alleys where Derek hoped that Charlie’s pursuers were going to pass to get to him, resolutely ignoring the terrified screeching of the people onto whose houses the trees fell. At the very least the surprise would buy them some time, and he could only hope that it was enough.

Clutching his cloak and making sure it covered his head, Derek ran to his brother, who had now rolled over on all fours and was shaking his head. He crouched low, speaking urgently into his ear. “Can you get up, Charlie?”

“I _could_ , if only my head stops ringing,” Charlie muttered, slapping his right ear with an open palm. “Stupid lightning.”

“Of all the times you could complain about a little lightning, it has to be now?” Derek stood up quickly and, certain now that Charlie wasn’t hurt and could stand, pulled him by the scruff of his cloak to a standing position. “I just saved you.”

Fresh shouts – nearer, even more furious ones – resounded down the alley: they had, apparently, found a tree or two blocking their way, and had taken to hacking the obstacle with their hatchets and swords. “Not completely, brother,” Charlie said. He took off on a run, this time pulling a startled Derek with him. “Let’s go!”

They hared it all the way to the first corner where, turning left, Derek made it first to the sewage hole they had used earlier to get inside the city walls. Without hesitation, he slipped down and into the muck, followed quickly by Charlie, splashing their way as noiselessly as possible to the edge where it fell quickly away into a roaring river below. They looked down in dismay: the ropes that they had so painstakingly fixed against the City walls were gone.

“You think we have to –”

The combined shouts of what seemed to be a greater crowd than before, accompanied by the baying and barking of dogs, made the brothers exchange quick glances. 

_No choice,_ Charlie said. _You think you can –_

Charlie felt Derek tense, reading his thoughts faster than he could think them, as he always did. _I can try._

Derek plunged his hands into the water, closing his eyes, his face screwed tightly in concentration. Had the situation not been so dire Charlie might have laughed out loud, but as it was all he could do was wait for the results of whatever his brother was trying.

Presently Charlie felt a strange sensation in the muck they were standing in: it was moving more and more sluggishly, causing the assorted bits of filth to bump into each other, settling like so many puzzle pieces until they formed some sort of surface. _No,_ Charlie thought, trying to move his hands that were under water and failing. _It’s not the garbage that’s forming a surface._

_It's the water …_

With a gasp, Derek opened his eyes. “It’s as much as I can do,” he said breathlessly, and with a sudden move he pushed Charlie out of the sewage and into the current that no longer felt like water but more like soft ice.

The next thing he knew, Charlie was sliding out of the sewage, down, down, towards the river, the water cradling him somewhat. The ride was exhilarating, but it didn’t mute the cold that seeped through his bones once he fell into the swirling water, Derek splashing in loudly right after him.

_Duck,_ Derek said, still breathless, even in his mind. _Quick. Hoods. Hair._

Charlie understood, and he jackknifed his body down onto the water, taking the moment to take in his bearings and adjust his hood so that it covered his head once more. Murkily he could see Derek, gesturing to the left, and he kicked his legs, hard, to follow his brother’s lead, and they swam now, deeper into the forest and nearer to safety, until the frustrated sounds of those coming after them faded into nothing.

 

***************

 

“Fire,” Charlie managed to spit out once they had both dragged themselves to the riverbank, half-drowned and shivering violently. “D-d-derek. Fire.”

Derek hunched over, his own teeth chattering. “I n-n-need twigs, id-id-idiot,” he said. “G-get me t-t-twigs.”

Charlie closed his eyes, trying to ignore the cold and instead focus his mind on the image of twigs, feeling many of them lying around him. Calling them to him, he felt the grass rustle as various sticks rushed to where he and his brother lay, some still green, some brown, some with startled insects still perched on them, practically pelting them until they were practically half-buried in it.

“O-o-overk-kill,” Derek managed to mutter, pushing twigs off him onto a heap. He gestured at them, and a wisp of smoke immediately sprang up from the twigs, with a flame leaping up in its wake. The rest of the pile followed suit, burning so cheerfully and so fiercely that both brothers felt the warmth seep into their chilled bones despite their wet clothes.

“Not too hot,” Charlie warned, crawling slightly nearer to the bonfire and holding his hands out towards it. “Otherwise it’d be a fine story if we escaped those people only to become roasted in the forest.”

“I can’t control it, you know that,” Derek said, half-annoyed, sitting beside his brother. “No more than you can call just a _few_ twigs, not every twig within half a league.”

Charlie shook his head, grinning. “I guess we should just be thankful we can even do it, then,” he said. “Add that to the list of offenses we’ve got against the City.”

Derek grinned back. Much as they might bicker, he and Charlie were twins, and animosity between them was always easily forgotten. “How many have we got by now, anyway? I’ve lost count.”

“Don't bother, then,” Charlie chuckled. Sobering quickly, he looked around. “It shouldn’t be long till we get home. Reckon we should show up like this?” he asked, indicating their wet clothes.

“Nana wouldn’t notice. I’m just worried that we didn’t manage a little food. Her cough’s been so much worse lately, and I was hoping a bit of warming food from the City could help, somehow.”

Charlie sighed. “I’m sorry, Derek. I didn’t have enough time –”

Derek clapped a hand on his brother’s shoulder roughly. “Not your fault. Stupid baker came too early.” He nodded towards the river. “Besides, the bread wouldn’t have survived the water, anyway.”

Charlie nodded. “Guess we try for roots, then?”

Derek shrugged glumly. “Best we do,” he said. “And quick, before Nana realizes we’re out.”

 

***************

 

The twins entered their dirt hut as quietly as they could, but it soon became obvious that it was unnecessary: Nana had turned to her side, her eyes open and feverish, watching them.

“Boys,” Nana called. “Where have you been?”

Derek and Charlie exchanged guilty glances before Charlie said, “Uh – we – wanted to – find food.” He lifted his right hand to show three small turnips dangling there. “Soup, Nana. We thought we’d make soup –”

“From the City’s sewage?”

Derek looked quickly at Charlie’s surprised face before answering. “Er – sewage? Nana, are you dreaming? Is it the fever again?”

“Don’t you pretend, Derek,” Nana said, wagging a finger weakly at him, the gesture familiar even if it had lost its former strength. “I can smell you a mile away. I don't need anything special to tell me that, just my nose.”

Charlie sighed, shaking his head at his brother who had already begun to open his mouth to make a protest. “We’re sorry, Nana,” he said quietly, walking over to the old woman’s bed and kneeling in front of her. “I know you said we shouldn’t, but we did. We went to the City tonight.”

Nana looked up, horror in her eyes. “What?” she whispered, her hands clutching Charlie’s hands. “Did anyone see you? Did you make sure to cover your heads?”

“We wanted to get you something – bread, maybe some meat – so that we could make something better for you to eat. Warm you better than turnips and mushrooms could,” Charlie said gently, trying not to answer her questions. “Your fever hasn’t broken for days –”

“Never mind my fever,” Nana said, her voice trembling with urgency. “Tell me. Did anyone see you? _Did they see your hair?_ ”

“No, no, Nana,” Derek said, dropping his turnips to the floor near the fire and coming over to kneel beside his brother. “They saw us, but we made sure to cover our heads, like you always said.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Surer than sure, Nana,” Derek said stoutly, making a sign of promise over his chest. “I swear on the head of Charlie here.”

“ _My_ head? Why can’t it be yours?”

“Because my head’s prettier than yours, that’s why,” Derek said, smirking.

“Boys, boys,” Nana began to say with a weak shake of her head, and the rest of her words were buried in a fit of coughing that shook her whole frame and seemed to the twins to be taking longer and longer for her to recover from.

Their teasing mood abruptly dissipating, Derek quickly got up to sit on the bed beside Nana, gently rubbing as much of her upper back as he could reach, while Charlie patted the hand that continued to hold his in a death grip. “Sorry, Nana. But Derek is right. No one saw our hair, we’re certain of it.” 

Her coughing eased then as Nana released his hand, and her whole body relaxed, turning so that she sagged back into the bed. “Good,” she whispered, looking at them in turn. “But promise me, boys … promise me you’ll never go near the City again for me. Whatever happens. Promise me …”

Derek stole a glance at Charlie, who was now biting his lip. With the old woman lying now on her back, he resorted to smoothing her hair, something she used to do to calm him down when he was small. The memory pinched somewhere in his heart. “Yes, Nana. We’re sorry we went at all. We won’t do it again.”

Nana lifted a shaking hand to pat his in grateful acknowledgement before turning her attention to Charlie. “Charlie? How about you?”

Still, Charlie hesitated. “But, Nana –”

“You swear to me right now, Charlie,” Nana insisted, even as her voice carried no threat but a hint of pleading. “I want your word.”

Charlie sighed. “Alright, alright. I promise, Nana,” he finally said, although he spoke as if every word was being wrung out of him. “Put your mind at ease. I promise.”

Nana seemed to take comfort in Charlie’s words, and she nodded as she finally closed her eyes. “Good. A promise. Never broken. A promise. Good.” Her words began to slur, even as her breathing seemed to slow. “Promise. My boys. Good …”

After a few minutes of watching, Charlie finally turned to Derek. _She’s asleep. Let’s get that soup going._

Derek stood up, nodding. But instead of walking away towards the low fire burning in the grate as he usually would, he stayed where he was, looking down at Charlie and the sleeping Nana, his usually mischievous face uncharacteristically pensive.

_Charlie?_

_Hmm?_

_Why_ is _our hair a crime to the City?_ Shaking his hood back, Derek scratched his head, his short blond hair now gleaming in the firelight. _I mean … we can’t help it, could we?_  

_No, we couldn't,_ Charlie said, sighing. _I don't know anything more than you already do. Nana told us both about it, remember? That the moment people in the City know that we have –_ he put his own hand up to pull his hood down, shaking his still-damp blond curls – _this, they’ll put us in jail._

_Or cut off our heads,_ Derek put in.

_Or something like that,_ Charlie nodded, ending the short recital of gory possibilities that Nana had always regaled them with ever since they were old enough to understand.

Derek rubbed his chin. _Well … in any case, what Nana says is apparently true._ No one else _in the City has our hair. Everyone had dark heads, like Nana. I saw them._

_I didn’t. Besides, Nana has silver hair,_ Charlie thought idly.

_Only because she’s old,_ Derek said, shaking his head. _That’s not the point._

_I know,_ Charlie answered, getting up and moving towards the fire purposefully now, scooping up their meager find from the floor and depositing them onto the only narrow table in the hut. _It's just the Law, and no one changes the Law._ He shrugged, nodding towards the table. _Anyway. Let’s just get the soup going and quit asking, because we won't get anywhere._

_That’s always been the problem with you, Charlie,_ Derek said, striding over to where his brother was, taking his hunting knife out and gesturing for one of the turnips. _You’re too … straight. Too predictable._

_I am_ not _,_ Charlie answered, handing the vegetable over and pulling his own knife out. _Just that asking Nana doesn’t get our questions answered, and I don’t want her getting overexcited. She’s weak enough as it is._

Derek sighed. _I know._ He looked towards the bed, where the bed and the body on it threw flickering shadows onto the hut wall. _What if she doesn’t make it, Charlie? She’s never been this sick before._

_She will,_ Charlie said grimly, trimming the turnip with more force than was necessary. _She will._

The brothers worked in silence for a moment, both their minds dark and swirling in thoughts that both of them could see and sense and yet were afraid to say aloud, taking as much comfort as they could from the mundane task of chopping vegetables for soup.

_You do know we’ll have to go to the City again, don’t you?_ Derek’s thought nosed in on Charlie’s after a while, and because he had expected it to happen, it made him smile, if only briefly. Derek never _could_ stop talking, even if his life depended on it – and in that he was as predictable as Charlie was. _If Nana doesn’t get better. It’s going to be icefall soon, and however hot the fire I make, she won’t stop shivering. It’s not even that cold now, and already she’s shivering all the time. The shivering will –_  

_No,_ Charlie said, shaking his head, putting his knife down beside the finished roots. _We promised, Derek. We gave Nana our word that we won’t go into the City anymore for her._ He sighed, knowing that Derek shared the same nameless fear that he had whenever he thought hard enough about Nana’s dwindling situation. If it had been either one of them on the line, he wondered, would she had kept away from the City, too? _But … we’ll find another way. We’ll find a way, you and I._

Derek nodded resignedly, tipping all the chopped vegetables – no more than a shrivelled handful – into the pot. _Well, we’d better start looking then,_ he thought, watching the water stir and swirl, then looking up to meet his twin’s eyes, as blue and as fearful as his own. _But if not the City … where?_

_I don't know,_ Charlie admitted, feeling utterly helpless. _I honestly don’t know._

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for musicalem16 and fandrastic, whose encouragement gave me the boost to keep going. I hope you guys enjoy it! :-)

 

The heat was stifling, and Meryl longed to open the windows to let a bit of breeze that she somehow knew to be lurking right outside her window to finally come in, but she knew that eyes were watching her, expecting her to stay seated, all prim and proper in the way that befit her status.

 _To the pit with status,_ Meryl thought, feeling a bead of sweat break from her brow, making its ticklish way down her face. _We all sweat. We all bleed. It doesn't matter._

As if in response, the bone needle that she was using seemed to jump from her hand to pierce her middle finger. “Ow!”

Swiftly the trio of waiting maids who sat at her feet stood up, crowding around her and making noises of distress as they watched a drop of blood blossom on her finger. Another woman, older than the rest and looking even older with what seemed to be her perpetual frown, stood up more slowly and made her way to Meryl’s side, clucking her disappointment.

“Grace, go and fetch one of the white cloths in the linen closet. Polina, a basin of water. Maia, for goodness sake, stop gaping like a landed fish and take the Lady Meryl’s sewing from her and bring it to the next room. Can’t you see it will be ruined if we don’t?”

The girls jumped into action, going about their assigned tasks as quickly as their swishing skirts allowed them. As soon as their footsteps faded into the distance the older woman turned to Meryl, searching her face. “Lady Meryl, what is troubling you?”

“Please, milady,” Meryl said, keeping her voice as polite as possible, “can’t we open the windows, even for just a tiny bit? The heat is stifling me and I cannot focus on my needlework.”

The older woman shook her head. “You know that your Uncle has forbidden you from allowing outside air to come into your rooms,” she said. “It is bad for your health.”

“But –”

“No ifs or buts, young woman,” a voice boomed from the doorway where a hefty man stood, his fists planted onto his hips. “No open windows.”

“My Lord Igor,” the governess said, bowing slightly.

“Lady Anne,” Igor said in acknowledgement. “I will take care of this. You may go.”

“But my lord, she has not finished her stitching for the day –”

Igor waved his hand. “Go.”

Without another word the older woman bowed again, first to Igor and then to Meryl, sweeping her skirt’s tail behind and up onto her left arm in a practiced and elegant fashion (the likes of which Meryl couldn’t hope to copy) and exiting from the room.

“Uncle, please,” Meryl said as soon as Lady Anne had closed the door, “I cannot possibly finish this dress if I sweat all over it. My fingers slip on the needle and I prick myself one too many times. You were the one who’d been insistent that I finish this as quickly as possible; would you have it be dotted all over with my lifeblood?”

Igor frowned. “Wipe your fingers dry, then.”

“I would if I could, Uncle,” Meryl answered, indicating her position with a wave of her right hand. “But all these heavy clothes –”

“Those clothes befit your status,” her uncle said, a warning note in his voice. They had gone through this argument over and over again ever since Meryl had learned to speak, and it was like treading a well-worn path: they could walk it repeatedly, but both knew it would end in the same place anyway. “I will not have my niece seen in the rags you call clothes.”

“But those … _rags_ would help me move better, Uncle,” Meryl said. “All the people of the City –”

“All the people of the City know nothing,” her uncle snapped back. “They are no better than pigs, nosing around and following those who can feed them.”

“But Uncle –”

“No, Meryl, and that’s the end of this discussion.” He looked at her, and for the first time she noticed how weary his eyes were, how deep the lines that crisscrossed his face seemed in the flickering candlelight. “You will keep those windows closed, you will _not,_ under any circumstances, wear anything other than those clothes, and you will finish that dress within a fortnight.”

“A fortnight?” Meryl glanced down at her immobile form, thinking of the heavy stitching on her current dress – and she was just seeing the _top_ layer, not even the many others beneath – and imagining how much more she had to do to complete the new one. “But I cannot possibly do that in a fortnight, Uncle, you know that. Not even in _two_ fortnights. Besides, why is it so important that I have to be so speedy as to risk bleeding myself lifeless over a dress?”

Immediately her uncle’s face closed, and once again she could see nothing on his face but that of blank authority. “Nothing of concern,” he said briskly, turning around and striding over to the door. “Your only task is to complete the dress. See to it that you do.”

 

***************

 

“What? A fortnight? But Meryl – that’s impossible." 

Meryl sighed as she rearranged, yet again, the skirts that framed her body. She was thin and frail under those clothes, and yet her uncle – her mother’s brother, the man who had taken them in once their parents passed away – insisted that she wear layer after layer of clothing, despite the heat in the City. There was no respite from the thickly embroidered skirts or the iron-hemmed blouses that made her so inexplicably heavy that she couldn’t even walk by herself, but had to be supported by her maids to get anywhere. _I know, Shawn,_ she signed back by tapping on her sister’s other arm, a series of taps that they had worked out together from since they were young. _And Uncle won’t even tell me why there’s such a rush._

Her younger sister, Shawn, shifted the light wooden paddle that she was using to her left hand and continued fanning Meryl as hard as she could. The irony of it all was that it was Shawn who could have carried the heavy skirts and dresses around better, built as sturdily as she was, but for some reason their uncle never asked Shawn to wear what Meryl did. No – Shawn wore something else entirely.

 

***************

 

Until she was about waist-high, Shawn wore silks like the rest of the household. But then she began talking about how her clothes were made from the spinning of countless worms, telling everyone in great detail about what the worms _sang_ about as they did – and that was the end of Shawn in her regular clothing. For several days and nights their uncle got their seamstresses to produce dress after dress for Shawn, dresses that would stop her from talking about what went into them without her really knowing how. 

They brought her a dress of hemp. She talked about how the plants that made her dress up had fought its way to get to the sun, feeling the heat in their stalks.

They brought her a dress made out of cotton. She spoke of the wind that whistled through the trees that had borne the buds of her clothes, her face lighting up with delight as she described the gentle swaying of their bodies.

They brought her a dress made out of animal leather. She screamed and threw the dress onto the floor, shivering and shaking, uncaring that she lay there completely naked and not a stitch on. Her uncle had yelled at the seamstress who made it, and she had left the room in tears.

Finally, the weary seamstresses brought Shawn a dress spun out of copper threads, and as soon as she put it on, her face closed suddenly, the expression almost comical had it not been of such great import. Shawn simply stood there, stock-still, not even looking towards her uncle or Meryl, who even then sat (always, always sat) helplessly in her heavy clothes clenching and unclenching her hands, wanting desperately to run over to her sister and comfort her, but could not.

“Well?” Their uncle asked, watching Shawn’s face. “What does this dress tell you?”

Shawn continued to stand there as if she heard nothing, saw nothing.

“Shawn?” Meryl asked this time, making her voice louder.

Lady Anne took a puzzled look at their uncle, who nodded. She stepped forward and gently put a hand on the youngster’s shoulder. “Lady Shawn?”

At her touch, Shawn looked up at her blindly, reaching out and grasping what she could of her skirts. “Lady Anne? Is that you?” she asked in a small voice. “Help me, please … I … I cannot see. I cannot hear. I see nothing … I hear nothing. Help me …”

Horrified, Lady Anne looked towards their uncle, who had stood up by then and run over to his younger niece. He knelt in front of her. “Shawn?”

Shawn felt the touch, turning her body towards their adoptive father. “Uncle, is that you? What is happening, Uncle? Help me!”

And Shawn had collapsed into a fit of sobbing, their uncle cradling her carefully in her dress of copper that somehow crumpled like cloth, his face set. “Lady Anne,” he called. “Help me bring the Lady Shawn to her room. She needs to rest.”

“But my lord, she – she is blind – she is deaf – a moment ago she was not! I don’t know how –”

“To her room, Lady Anne, if you please,” her uncle said again, his voice hardening. “We will not speak of this.” He glared at the other women in the room, the seamstresses quaking and making the sign to ward against evil over their foreheads. “And if any of you so much as whisper, I will have your heads cut off, do you hear me? All of you.” He gestured towards the door. “Now get out.”

At that, the women scurried out of the room, clutching their bowed heads subserviently, obviously unwilling to part with them in any manner.

It was only when her uncle swept from the room carrying Shawn did her sister lift her head, questing for Meryl around the room and somehow looking straight into her eyes. Meryl had to bite her lip to keep herself from gasping in horror as she realized that Shawn’s eyes – which, like hers, were green with flecks of gold – had dulled and filmed over, a sheen on them that reminded Meryl of the pearls that her mother had left them both to wear when they were of age. They were still beautiful, it was true, but they were lifeless.

No, not just lifeless.

Sightless. 

 

***************

 

Shawn shifted again, breaking Meryl out of her reverie. “Meryl … is Uncle alright?”

Meryl looked at her sister, whose face, as always, had that same placid look that she wore ever since the day she began wearing her copper dresses. _Maybe,_ Meryl signaled back. It had always puzzled her why Shawn had lost her ability to hear and see but – for some reason – she could still speak as normally as anyone. It was a small blessing, the only normalcy left to her sister, although in so many ways it was not a blessing at all. _But something is up. I know it in my bones, if nothing else._

Shawn frowned. “I don't like the sound of that.”

Meryl was saved from having to answer when Polina came in, curtsying to both of them. “My ladies, your hair bath has been drawn.”

Meryl sighed, wrinkling her nose. “Is it the brown bath?”

Polina curtsied again. “If you please, my lady.”

 _Shawn,_ Meryl signed, _it’s brown bath time. Again._ To the waiting Polina she asked, “We just had the brown bath a moon ago. Can it not be done next week? I truly have no wish for that hot, mucky mess to be sliding through my hair just now.”

“I am sorry, my lady, but we are all under strict orders from your Uncle that you are to take the brown bath every moonsday …” 

“… and that is tonight.” Shawn sighed. She had been following the conversation, word for word, through Meryl’s tapping. “Lady Anne says so.”

“Indeed, my lady,” Polina said with a curtsy. 

Meryl made a face. “I hate the brown bath; it smells … rotten. And no one else has to do it, either, just Shawn and myself. Whatever is it _for_?”

“I am sorry, my lady,” Polina answered, her face politely apologetic. “I do not know.”

“Might as well get over it, then,” Shawn shrugged then, turning her sightless face towards her sister. “Let’s stop torturing Polina with your many questions, Meryl. If we get started now, it’ll be over before we know it. Then maybe you can ask Uncle about it … again. Not that he would answer you, but …”

Meryl shook her head at her sister’s ill-disguised mocking humor. _Oh really? Making fun of me now, are you?_

Shawn gave her an impudent smile.

 _Well. Unfortunately for you,_ I’m _the older one here._ Meryl smiled at Polina. “Fine, the brown bath it is. But … Lady Shawn will take it first.”

“Yes, my lady.” Polina – trained very well not to react to anything that Meryl might say or do, and knowing that by birthright her orders would always take precedence over Shawn’s – curtsied and moved forward to assist Shawn out of the room. Shawn rose swiftly at Polina’s touch, but not before sticking her tongue out at Meryl and grinning good-naturedly.

Meryl merely grinned back. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Like it? Hate it? Please comment so I know if anyone's interested! Thanks!


End file.
